Far in the pillared dark Thrush music went- Almost like a call to come in To the dark and lament. But no, I was out for stars: I would not come in. I meant not even if asked, And I hadn't been.
Hell is a half-filled auditorium.
I wonder about the trees. Why do we wish to bear Forever the noise of these More than another noise So close to our dwelling place?
I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.